DATE: Saturday, November 8, 1997            TAG: 9711070103

SECTION: DAILY BREAK             PAGE: E4   EDITION: FINAL 

SOURCE: BY PAM STARR, STAFF WRITER 

                                            LENGTH:   49 lines

GROWING UP IN A BRIDGE FAMILY

WHILE OTHER kids were riding bikes and playing hopscotch, I was learning how to play bridge.

By the time I was 7, I knew how to shuffle cards, deal, bid, play hands and how to count my opponents' points during play.

At my mother's family reunion every Thanksgiving, the highlight of the holiday is not the turkey, it's the bridge. Bridge is played from sunup to sundown. I know enough to get by, but not enough to please Aunt Barbara.

When I was younger, she was always complaining that I underbid, overbid, played the wrong card, missed a finesse, you name it. Now that I'm older, I manage to make myself scarce whenever I hear the dreaded words ``We need a fourth for bridge!''

At one reunion, I was my mother's partner, and I remember begging to go to bed at 2 a.m. I was 21 and had been sitting at the kitchen table since noon.

My mother glared at me. Extraordinary cards had been dealt to her all night, and she was flush with success.

``You can sleep after we finish this rubber,'' she commanded. ``Just a few more minutes.''

My parents were members in a duplicate bridge club. Every Saturday night they would play at someone's house until 1 a.m. The next day they griped about their losses or gloated over their triumphs. We preferred their wins.

One Saturday a month my parents hosted the event. My siblings and I had to shuffle and predeal the cards for the duplicate boxes. In duplicate bridge, everyone plays the same hands and compares each other's scores at the end of the evening.

Once, my older brother, Rick, committed the unpardonable sin of stacking the deck. Each of the four hands in every duplicate box was carefully selected by the teenager.

I recall his glee as he secretly figured out combinations that were sure to cause a few heated exchanges during the games.

``Rick, you're going to get in so much trouble,'' I warned. The Boy Scout in him listened for a second, but the rebel in him shooed me away.

``They won't find out,'' he answered.

We all sat at the top of the stairs, listening with breathless anticipation as the game began. Not only did the members find out but they were livid after playing the first box. Loud shouts suddenly permeated the air when accusations started flying.

I recall that my father took the stairs two at a time as the four of us scattered like seeds in the wind. Rick was grounded for a month; I got a week for aiding and abetting.

And we never had to predeal the duplicate boards ever again.

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